


Think About It

by barush



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barush/pseuds/barush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes makes a rather questionable proposal to Watson. Before giving his answer, the doctor needs to evaluate all aspects of the situation carefully and get over his denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think About It

You never talked about it again.

He said, _Take as much time as you need._

He said, _I shall wait, however long it takes._

That was it.

You never talked about it again with him.

You only struggled not to think about it every second of every day.

 

*

 

The morning newspaper had dirty smudges all over it. He must have torn it right out of the printer's hands, before the ink had any chance to dry, on one of his early morning strolls. For some reason, that image made you smile.

Your first patient was supposed to come in about an hour, so you had plenty of time to at least thumb through the newspaper and read the most interesting articles first. Those were usually about thefts, murders or sudden disappearances. If your subconsciousness was trying to tell you something, it could as well save its breath, you wouldn't listen.

However, every Monday, there was a very peculiar section included in the newspaper. Or at least, you thought about it as such, as you couldn't devise any good purpose for it. Alas, as usually, your curiosity got the better of you and you began to read.

Declarations of love, birthday wishes, advertisements of all kinds. Some anonymous, some proudly stating the name of the author. In this section, anyone could publish a short message for free, the only thing they had to do was to send a letter to the publisher and hope theirs would be chosen. Even though you didn't understand why anybody would choose this particular method of communication, it certainly made for an entertaining read.

Casually skimming through, one of the short messages caught your eye. It was addressed to _My Dear Doctor_. There were dozens of doctors in London probably, you thought. Besides, a doctor didn't necessarily have to be a medical professional. There was no reason to think the message had anything to do with you, obviously. Still, you curiously returned to it to read its content. It was just one line, but your heart nearly stopped.

_Think about it._

No, it couldn't be. The signature under the simple statement read _Yours Truly_. Nothing more.

Your head started to spin. It had to be just a weird coincidence, something you made up in your mind. Rationally, you knew your reaction was rather unreasonable, but something was telling you this wasn't just an innocent message left for a complete stranger.

Holmes chose this precise moment to enter the room.

"Watson, I see you discovered the newspaper already. I know how interested you are in the Harding scandal, however hard you might try to hide it, so I got one of the first prints, before the gossip seekers got to it." He smiled enigmatically and met your eyes. "So, anything worth my attention?"

You just stared back.

 

*

 

The restaurant was rather nice, considering. Not that you wouldn't trust Holmes' judgement, but when it came to being sociable and eating out, out of the two of you, it was you who was the more experienced in the matter. The bigger had been your surprise, then, when Holmes had suggested trying out the newly opened restaurant just a few minutes away from Baker Street. You couldn't help thinking he had some ulterior motive.

"What are we really doing here?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Holmes just smiled at you. "We're eating dinner, Watson. Honestly, I thought I'd taught you better than that."

You ignored the jab, having heard much worse come out of that particular mouth.

"I mean, why here? Why now? Does it have to do anything with your case? Or," your eyes narrowed suspiciously, "what are you up to? Better yet, what have you done, Holmes?"

Holmes chuckled. "So many questions, my dear Watson! And yet, you're wrong at all accounts. I really thought I had taught you better than that."

He put down his knife, only playing with his fork now, and looked down at his plate. "I simply wanted to visit the new restaurant. Besides, we haven't eaten out for a while; I thought you'd like it."

"I do," you said and left it at that, although not entirely convinced.

After that, the dinner progressed uneventfully. Holmes kept talking about his current case, which seemed to be all solved in his head, except for the lack of any actual evidence, and you listened and watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he was chewing his raw steak. Purely for medical reasons, of course. Holmes' Adam's apple was rather unusual. In what way though, you couldn't tell. Further study was definitely needed on that subject.

When you were finished, a waiter came to take away your plates. Just when you wanted to ask if Homes' invitation included footing the bill as well, which was by no means a given, a tiny woman approached your table. She was dressed in a colourful dress and you would have said she was a gypsy if it weren't for her fair skin and blue eyes. You were so stunned that you didn't even notice the tiny envelope she slipped onto the table in front of you. Only after she said, "Your fortune, sirs," did you look down and saw the item she left there.

"What is this?" you asked Holmes, completely perplexed by the situation.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Holmes even looked surprised, you noted. "This is the first restaurant in which a genuine foreteller will try to predict your fate by the meal you eat."

How he managed to say that with a straight face, you had no idea. It was only your incredulous look that did him in and he burst out laughing.

"Watson, if you could see your face right now!"

You weren't amused. In fact, you were rather annoyed at Homes' antics for some reason. When it was clear that you were waiting for a further explanation, Holmes managed to get himself under control and continued speaking.

"Honestly, it's true," he said. "Every guest gets this envelope before they leave, with their fortune written in it. I might have made up the part about the meal though," he added as an afterthought. When your facial expression didn't change, Holmes said, "Come on, Watson. It's just entertainment."

You eyed the tiny envelope with slight trepidation. Holmes was probably right; it was just a silly joke to make the guests remember the restaurant, as the actual food failed spectacularly in that department, but still, it invoked a feeling of unease in your gut. You couldn't tell why.

Or rather, you didn't want to.

"It seems like we won't have to worry about paying the rent any more, old boy," Holmes' voice suddenly penetrated your reverie. He was waving the tiny slip of paper in front of his face. "Apparently, I'll soon be quite wealthy", he chuckled. "What does your say?"

You took a deep breath and smiled at Holmes. You tried to read his expression and there was nothing but sparks of genuine curiosity in his eyes, no sings of mischief. If he had anything do with this, Holmes was hiding it rather well. With slightly shaking hands, you opened the envelope.

"Well?"

You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding. "We won't have to worry about finances indeed, I am also getting wealthy, it seems."

Holmes was delighted. You, on the other hand, experienced an odd sensation of relief.

Later, back in Baker Street, after Holmes had already retired to his room, you slipped the tiny paper out of your pocket. The message printed in black ink was exactly the same as the one Holmes had got. You were willing to bet they were all the same, somehow defeating the idea of them having any real value.

However, when you looked more closely at the back side of the slip, there was something you'd swear wasn't there before.

_Think about it._

A simple hand-written sentence. You didn't recognize the scrawl, but it was a fair bet that it had been written by a left hand, if the tilt of the letters was anything to go by.

 _I know what you're doing,_ you thought.

The flames in the fireplace hungrily swallowed the paper and you too bid goodbye to the living room and left for your bed.

The whirlwind of thoughts in your head kept you up until the wee hours of the morning.

 

*

 

The next few days passed by rather quickly and without any significant incident. Holmes took up a new case, which kept him away from Baker Street for most of his waking hours, but he didn't ask for your assistance once. Just as well, you thought. Suit yourself, you thought. There were sick people to be taken care of, people that really needed you and made you feel worthy. Running around London on the heels of a madman wasn't a suitable pastime for a respected doctor like yourself, anyway. And it gave you all the time in the world to think.

Just as well.

 

*

 

It didn't happen too often that Holmes would be unable to solve a case. Actually, it had never happened before, to the best of your knowledge. However, you had a feeling you'd get to know about it one way or another if Holmes had ever failed to uncover a mystery.

So that made this an unprecedented situation.

To top it all off, it was a simple case of robbery, one that would normally bore Holmes to tears. Yet he had taken it on as a favour to Lestrade, who had thrown away all his remaining dignity and positively begged for Holmes' assistance. The stolen jewels belonged to some very important and influential person in high place, apparently. Not that Holmes could care less, but he took pity on the poor inspector, thinking that solving that particular case would be a matter of one afternoon.

And here he was, a week later, without the slightest idea of where the stolen items might be, let alone whose work it was.

You didn't fail to notice that the morocco case had made an appearance once again, lying seemingly unused on the mantelpiece. Only, you knew better.

Holmes was sitting on the sofa, smoking a pipe, staring unseeingly at the lunch Mrs. Hudson had prepared for the both of you. He hadn't bothered to touch it yet and you didn't think he would. In fact, you weren't sure if Holmes had eaten anything at all during the last two days, which he spent holed up in his room, undoubtedly doing some hard thinking. It was a small miracle he actually made it to the living room this afternoon.

Lestrade's increasingly more frequent visits to Baker Street didn't help matters at all. He, too, was at a loose end, but, as you secretly thought, that was nothing new. You had had to send him away four times in the last couple of days, telling him that Holmes hadn't been feeling well. When even that hadn't kept him away (he did know Holmes for a long time after all) you had told him in your best concerned, doctorly voice that your friend had contracted some horribly contagious disease that prevented him from working on the case for the time being.

You wished it was true.

Seeing Holmes like this was tearing your heart apart. You knew he hadn't given up on the case, far from it. However, at this stage, there was nothing else for him to do but analyse the data he had already gathered. If his seven percent solution was helping him with that process, you didn't want to know. Still, you felt like you had to do something, anything, if only to get rid of this feeling of uselessness.

You knew that in private, Holmes could be a rather affectionate person, something that would surprise most of the people that knew only the cold detective he liked to present himself as. However, you also knew he hated to be touched or otherwise disturbed, when pondering a mystery.

Well, too bad, you thought. The decision was already made.

Abruptly, you stood up and strolled across the room to sit beside Holmes. Before he had any chance to flinch or try to fight you off, you grasped his tense shoulders and whispered 'relax' right into his ear. Being a doctor didn't make you an expert on massages; nevertheless, you certainly knew how to loosen stiff muscles.

Holmes seemed to agree with that notion, albeit wordlessly.

You couldn't help but notice that this was probably the most intimate you had ever been with Holmes. Not counting the various and numerous occasions on which you had to put him back together after a brawl in the Punch Bowl or an encounter with some ruthless villain. Because in those moments you were Doctor Watson helping his foolish patient, who happened to be his friend, not John Watson trying to relax his no less foolish friend by giving him an impromptu back massage. In a way it was rather surreal. And it made you feel strangely content.

You wondered if Holmes was having the same thoughts.

You wondered if this was what Holmes had had in mind, when he had made the proposition all those days ago.

You wondered if he meant something more than this. Something…

"Watson! I have been an enormous fool!"

Once again, Holmes managed to catch you completely off-guard. Before you even tried to open your mouth and form a coherent sentence, Holmes already put on his coat and now he was reaching for his hat.

"If Lestrade shows up again, send him to Mrs. Hopkin's house," Holmes said.

You just nodded in agreement, the progress of the situation too quick for you to catch up yet.

"Oh, and Watson?"

Holmes stopped right in the door and turned back at you, his expression unreadable.

"What?"

"You know what," he said and smirked, walking out the door to pounce down the stairs and out on the street.

Yes, you did know.

_Think about it._

 

*

 

As it turned out, it was the husband. If you thought it was a bit of a cliché, you didn't say anything. And certainly not to Holmes. He assured you that the whole case was much more difficult and it all depended on this one little detail he had failed to consider before, Mr. Hopkin's stiff shoulders. Then he lounged into a lengthy and detailed explanation, which you would normally be fascinated by, however, this time, you had more interesting things to ponder. Like, how exactly Holmes did come to that conclusion and thus solved the case.

The unfamiliar, yet not entirely unwelcome, closeness to Holmes in that one particular moment changed something inside you and made you realize it was time to pull your head out of the sand and face the inevitable facts.

Despite his not so subtle hints during the past month or so, you never considered Holmes' proposition in a serious manner. You had thought about it a lot and yet didn't. It was constantly at the back of your mind, but you never even tried to consider a possible answer.

That had to change.

You decided to take the scientific route, collect data first and then analyze them. One of your empty journals saved for recording your adventures with Holmes would serve the purpose of your study nicely. You were sure Holmes would be proud of you.

And thus began your Study of Sherlock Holmes.

 

*

 

_**Study of Sherlock Holmes as conducted by Dr. John Watson**  
(a.k.a. Thinking About It)_

_  
_

_**Purpose:** Seriously considering a scandalous proposition that has been made to my person._

_**Manner:** Most secretive. Elaborately casual._

_**Result:** Unclear._

**_Subject #1: Holmes' Adam's Apple_ **

_I have noticed it a long time ago. Actually, it was the first thing I looked at when I first shook hands with the man. It wasn't his captivating eyes that attracted my attention completely. There is just something so fascinating about the way such a seemingly insignificant part of the human anatomy affects another person's parts of the human anatomy. The way it bobs up and down when he's eating. Or hungrily drinking huge gulps of water after chasing a villain across the whole London. It's not too big or too small, just right. I'm a physician, I know such things._

_**Conclusion:** More data needed. Persuade Mrs. Hudson to prepare steak for dinner._

 

*

 

"Holmes, what are you –"

"Watson, I have run out of clean shirts."

"Then wear a dirty one, as usual. Don't parade around here like… like… this."

"Well, it has been too long, I must say."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"It's been too long since I had all my shirts washed and repaired by the nanny. Why, what did you think?"

"Holmes, just, put something on, will you?"

Holmes paused for a second, then turned away from you and stretched like a cat. You imagined a cat would make a similar sound as well. He remained in the same position for what seemed like an eternity, giving you a chance to ogle the rippling muscles in his shoulders and back.

 _I know what you're doing_ , you thought.

The sight getting too much, you had to squeeze your eyes shut.

"Watson, you're in denial."

Your eyes snapped open at that. Holmes stood facing you once again, still improperly dressed, holding a clean white shirt in his hands.

"What did you say?"

Surely, you must have been hearing things.

"I said I'm going to borrow one of your shirts."

There. Your imagination went into overdrive just a few seconds ago.

Or did it?

The wink Holmes gave you was entirely innocent. Too innocent.

 

*

**_Subject #2: Back_ **

_Muscles. Smooth skin. Scars. Broad shoulders. No hairs. Possible cause of auditory hallucinations (further medical study needed)._

_**Conclusion:** Subject is a world-class detective, ogling needs to be less obvious. Buy more shirts in Holmes' size. Tell Mrs Hudson not to hurry with laundry._

_  
_

*

 

You closed your little leather notebook with a sigh. This was ridiculous. You were an adult, an educated man; you should be able to answer a simple question without needing to conduct an elaborate and rather questionable study. There were only two possible responses to the top of that. However, whatever you would say, you were sure it would change your entire life, one way or another.

Actually, Holmes' proposal had already changed it. You were now in a weird state of limbo, writing journal entries that would make any decent lady blush, and thinking thoughts that could easily land you in jail, if expressed in public.

And you were sure Holmes was aware of your state of mind. Yet, he didn't say anything. With Holmes, actions spoke more loudly than words.

You opened your notebook again.

 

*

 

"Watson, are you quite alright?"

It seemed as if Holmes' voice was coming from a great distance. You knew he probably inquired as to the state you found yourself in at that moment, judging by the tone of his voice, but you were unable to decipher the actual words. The pounding in the right side of your forehead successfully robbed you off the ability to do anything but groan. So you did just that.

Holmes said something, which sounded suspiciously like 'migraine'. If you were in your right mind, you'd probably congratulate him on his unwavering powers of deduction, alas, you only groaned again.

The day had been long and difficult. It didn't help that you'd woken up with a slight tightness behind your eyes and huge gray clouds above your head. Metaphorically at least, as you hadn't been really sleeping on the streets, but that didn't make the clouds outside the windows any less vicious. Rain was about to come and bring your probably worst enemy with it. The one enemy that paralyzed you entirely and left you with no means to fight it off.

After an endless string of patients with various degrees of the common cold and hypochondria, you were just about ready to drop into your chair in the living room and wait for death to take you.

That's how Holmes found you.

Soft hands touched your forehead and a soft voice murmured something into your ear. You could feel yourself being moved, although it felt more like an out of body experience. Another voice, different to Holmes', said something from the general direction of the door (Mrs. Hudson maybe?), just to disappear as quickly as it appeared. By then your mind started to wander, overwhelmed by the never-ending pounding, and you slowly slipped into nothingness.

 

*

**_Subject #6: Does he really care?_ **

_I get migraines fairly frequently, yet I cannot remember one that would be this horrendous. Certainly not in the past few years. I don't remember much but the pain from last night, so I have no idea how I got safely to my own bed. There was even a wet cloth on my forehead and a glass of cold water on the nightstand. Mrs. Hudson would undoubtedly bring me some tea and probably something to eat as well. So that leaves just one other person. Unless Gladstone is far more capable then I thought._

_**Conclusion:** Yes._

 

*

 

You weren't a huge fan of the opera, but Don Giovanni you had a soft spot for. You'd already seen it once and absolutely adored it. Therefore it was quite disconcerting for you to find out that the tickets for the very last performance in London were hopelessly sold out before you even thought about purchasing a couple. Not even Holmes could get one for you.

The day the opera was taking place, no fewer than three patients positively bragged about going there. You had to literally bite your tongue not to say anything petty and jealous and just nodded politely. After all, it wasn't their fault you weren't lucky enough to get tickets. However, at the end of the day, you were so upset that you decided to get a glass of something stronger and sulk in front of the fireplace for a while.

It was already dark outside when Holmes emerged from his room. He didn't say anything, so you continued sipping your drink, it must have been your third or fourth already, you realized with a slight shock. Sure, a mere opera play wasn't worth feeling sick in the morning. But it was Don Giovanni.

Meanwhile Holmes settled in the other chair and took his violin. You didn't notice until he started to play though, too absorbed in your own resentful thoughts. It started as a sweet, gentle melody, as if he was trying to find his footing in the piece, but then it slowly progressed into something fiery and almost aggressive. Something familiar.

You gulped. "I didn't know you could play anything by Mozart."

Holmes stopped his frantic movements, put his violin down and looked at the floor.

"I can. Now."

No other words were uttered after the brief exchange. And you were glad; as you weren't sure you could speak over the lump in your throat. So you just sat with the glass in your hand, listening to Don Giovanni, and imagining sitting in an empty opera house, with Holmes playing solo on the stage.

The evening couldn't have been more perfect.

 

*

 

**_Subject #9:_ **

_There are simply no words to express what I felt last evening._

 

*

 

It was a Punch Bowl night. There wasn't any fixed schedule to Holmes' visits of the stinking boxing ring, but he liked to go at least once a month. Preferably on Fridays. You had never asked why and he'd never told you.

Tonight you decided to accompany him; it was starting to become a habit for you after all. There was just something so raw and passionate about seeing Holmes take on men twice his size and tackle them to the ground repeatedly, until they couldn't get up anymore. The feeling of collecting your winnings was just the icing on the cake. At least that was what you were telling yourself.

For some reason though, you had a strange feeling about the upcoming fight. You bet on the detective as usual, it would be an insult to Holmes' person not to, but you couldn't feel the excitement you usually sensed building up in your stomach. Tonight it was replaced by something akin to almost fear. There wasn't time to ponder your worries anymore though, as Holmes and his opponent had already entered the ring.

The fight started out slowly, it seemed as if the both men were seizing each other up and trying to come up with suitable tactics. It was Holmes who threw the first serious punch, to the other man's right cheek and thus started the most vicious brawl you'd ever witnessed.

It seemed like mere seconds passed, when both of them were already bleeding from various parts of their dirty bodies and there was no way to tell who had the upper hand. The betting men were going positively crazy.

You had to close your eyes.

Suddenly, the whole crowd gasped in unison and everything went silent. A faint thump echoed through the packed beer joint, not unlike a body hitting the ground. A strained silent moment later, an enormous cheer erupted and a wave of chaos overwhelmed everybody in the place.

You were afraid to open your eyes.

*

 

You see a faint trickle of blood running out of somebody's mouth, down their chin, and the first thing that comes to your mind is internal bleeding.

"Holmes, let me see your stomach."

"Watson, I've already told you-"

"Now."

Not even Sherlock Holmes would argue with you, when you were in a doctor mode. He had learned it the hard way. Obediently, he took his shirt off, and sat down on the sofa. You tried to ignore the blood stains all over it.

Somehow you were sure that the fight would be talked about for a few months at least, as the most brutal fight that the Punch Bowl had ever seen. The only way to tell who had actually won was that Holmes had remained on his feet some ten seconds longer than his opponent. Then he too crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.

Getting him back to Baker Street proved to be quite the challenge.

"Watson, you need not to worry, I am perfectly fine."

If it weren't for the tight clench of your teeth that prevented you from opening your mouth, you might have actually laughed. Hysterically.

After probing Holmes' torso, you concluded there was no internal bleeding after all. The source of the blood now smudged all over his chin was a mere bitten tongue.

"Honestly, I could have told you that, old boy."

Sometimes you wished that patient abuse was allowed. You wondered if it made you a bad doctor.

When you managed to calm down enough that your hands weren't shaking with pent up anger anymore, you stitched the numerous cuts of various sizes scattered all over Holmes' body. It was a miracle that nothing was fractured, although one of his wrists was probably sprained, which was as good as broken in Holmes' case. He usually needed both hands for playing the mad scientist. After you were finished with the physician duty, everything fell silent.

Usually, you stayed mad for a while after Holmes' latest attempt to kill himself, but then the sympathy took over and you were able to forgive him in your mind. Tonight was different though. You still felt anger seeping through your veins, although it wasn't the blind rage that was encompassing you while you entered Baker Street with Holmes leaning heavily on your side.

"Watson, are you still mad at me?"

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell him what you really felt. Instead, you stood up and marched determinedly from the living room. Not even Holmes' increasingly desperate voice made you turn back.

*

 

~~**_Subject #13:_ ** ~~

_Screw this. Screw the whole thing. He doesn't go around making me such proposals and then nearly gets himself killed! The selfish bastard. The only things he cares about are his mysteries and experiments. He doesn't care about me, whatever he might say. Not in the slightest. Because if he did, he'd know the only thing keeping me sane and relatively happy is him. Him alive and healthy. I don't care if he wants to destroy himself bit by bit, as long as I'm not there to see it anymore._

_My feelings for him don’t mean anything. It's like he didn't even know I loved him. The selfish bastard._

 

*

 

Incredulously, you read what you'd just written into your leather bound notebook. It was like reading some complete stranger's notes. Some desperate stranger's scribbles. You had no recollection of writing those words. Your subconscious had finally taken over and spelled out your own feelings for you, using your own body as the messenger.

You loved Holmes.

Of course, you did. You'd always loved the impossible man. You just hadn't known it until now. Until you were once again faced with the option of losing him for good. The thought was unbearable.

You had to tell Holmes. It was time to stop hiding your feelings from both Holmes and yourself and give him the answer he had been waiting for way too long.

*

 

There were black smudges all over the front page of the morning newspaper when Holmes picked it up. It looked like the ink never had a chance to dry before somebody tore it right out of the printer's hands. You knew it because you had woken up extra early to do just that.

Holmes was skimming through the news pages, the foreign affairs, and as he drew closer and closer to the last page, your stomach started to do somersaults. There was no turning back now.

There it was, a gasp. Then, "Watson?"

You remained silent. Not that you couldn't speak up because you were too nervous, you wanted to leave Holmes in the dark for a while a longer. At least that was what you were telling yourself.

"Um, Watson. Is this… is it… "

As amusing as it was to see the great Sherlock Holmes lost for words, you thought there had been enough waiting already. So you said, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Holmes, I wrote that message. Or do you know any other Doctor that would be dear to you? I hope not."

The thought made you unreasonably jealous.

"And, is it…?"

"Yes, it is my answer as well.” You took a deep breath. "I thought about your proposal for a very long time. I pondered every aspect I could think of. You, myself, legal matters and I came to the conclusion that it is worth the risk and danger that it will inevitably bring.

"I care about you Holmes. And I know you feel the same way towards me. But there is much more. I cannot possibly imagine a life without you by my side. Every time I look at you, I feel things that I have never felt before. Things I shouldn't feel towards a mere friend. That was primarily why I decided that yes, I would like to engage in a relationship with you. Romantic, that is.”

It felt like somebody lifted a huge burden from your shoulders. Everything now seemed clearer, the colours more vivid. The world was brighter all of a sudden. And the Earth didn't stop turning, either.

"Very well."

Holmes was positively gloating. You, on the other hand.

"Holmes, is that all you have to say? I was torturing myself for months, because of you I might add, and after my heartfelt declaration all you say is 'very well'? Please."

"Now, Watson, let's not get ahead of ourselves. All in due time. After all, we have the rest of our lives together to explore everything to the utmost detail. The official matters out of the way now; I'm feeling a bit thirsty. Would you like to perhaps watch me drink a glass of water?”

That was the last thing you had expected. Frantically, you looked around the room in the search of your leather notebook. It was nowhere to be found.

Holmes burst out laughing.

After a moment you joined him. Life couldn't be better.


End file.
